


Apologies

by WordOfAll



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft's Meddling, No Slash, Poor Molly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:45:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9713954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordOfAll/pseuds/WordOfAll
Summary: Post TFP. Mycroft Holmes has just gone through one of the worst nights of his life and is fairly certain that sleep is a luxury he might not be allowed tonight.Molly Hooper has her own dark thoughts to deal with.What happens when Mycroft decides that Doctor Hooper deserves at least an apology for what has happened?





	1. Chapter 1

According to his experience, there are just two kinds of people who walk this Earth. Those afraid to die - and those who know that there are things far, far worse that could happen to them.

In his case, his brother ready to blow his brains off is a very close impersonation of such a thing.

Mycroft Holmes, the man, is expendable. Even to those few close to him, he would be missed - but they can continue their lives without him. He is not angry with them for this. He knows his place. He is actually kind of weirdly, cynically glad that his brother would not break out of grief in case one of the occasional assassination attempts was successful.

He was assured that his brother is alive and unharmed. That Doctor Watson, even Eurus survived this ordeal. An assurance from the agents that found him, and later a much more honest attempt to calm him by giving him more details of what happened by Lestrade will have to suffice. He is not expecting Sherlock to call - it is not like him.

He is sure that even though he feels wretched, even though he knows that all physical and mental power residing in his body is drained, he will not sleep today. He's too raw, the events too alive in his mind, merging with every nightmare he ever had, every nightmare he ever lived through.

Ordinarily, he can work through bad things happening. Sift through his thoughts one after another, carefully weigh them, analyze them for their usefulness and then either discard them to the dark recesses of his mind or put them into the more forefront, more orderly part of his brain for further inspection.

This, however, is not an ordinarily bad thing. People died because of his mistake, unexpectedly, uselessly. Just so his little sister could play. Sherlock could have died. Sherlock could have lost his best friend - again.

A helicopter transported him from the island and a black car transported him to his place. He could see now how much his grand, mostly empty house begged to be a part of a horror story. It was crazy of Sherlock to actually do so, of course.

The thing is - it is empty. The security was reinstalled and reactivated, of course. Paintings taken away for repairs. The projector replaced. But it is not home. It never was, nothing ever was, not after the fire...

Stop! Do not do that now, you do not have strength. It was just a very bad day, indeed.

And it shames him to realize that there is still another victim of Eurus' game. Someone no one really paid any attention yet.

* * *

There are days that do not bring much good. She can deal with that, after all, she works in the mortuary. All the good she can bring to the people is to assure them that yes, the cause of death was correct and they can now bury their loved one.

But than there are days like shit.

She rarely felt so hollow as this. She got used to break ups, and tears, and heartbreaks. Her latest relationship lasted three months. It must be a record. But Toby, her only faithful companion, deserved better than to be found stiff next to the back door, already cold.

Yeah, he was kind of old, for a cat. But still, he was always the same active, arrogant, furry ball of dirt as the day she got him. There was no warning. He just died.

And then, Sherlock called.

She though she was over it, that she can live with the knowledge that it is just as it is and Sherlock is never going to be the kind of sassy boyfriend full of dark humor from her dreams. She is an adult, she can deal with her crushes.

But the idiot must have had such a terrible, cruel request! What was it even all for? Just to mock her?

Let's just say she might have cried on her kitchen floor for a long time.

Then she thought of having a shower and watching some super silly movie. But there was nothing silly enough on TV. So, she basically sat on her couch in her pajamas and contemplated her sorry life. She will not get much sleep tonight, she was sure. Too many emotions whirling in her head, and not at all pleasant ones.

* * *

This might be a bad idea. Perhaps Sherlock already called her and apologized. Or not. Probably not.

He knew that Sherlock would want to apologize in person. The outburst in Sherrinford was enough of a proof that he did not take his friendship with Doctor Hooper granted. But Sherlock was still out of London, in a little country hotel, because it would be silly to hurry to London at night when 221B was in shambles.

He had no doubt that when Sherlock actually talk to Doctor Hooper, he would find much better words than Mycroft ever could to express his regrets. But Mycroft remembered the video feed, and how upset the woman was even before the call. In his opinion, this situation required at least some intervention right now.

Damage control. That is one of the things he is good at. And this is just another sort of damage control. Making sure that if he cannot actually make the situation immediately better, he could at least nudge those involved to a path of eventual healing. Or something like that.

Emotions. Messy, muddy, human emotions. And he is not that good with humans. But he knows that unfortunately, with Mrs Hudson in hospital, there is currently no one better to calm the upset Molly Hooper. Especially as he, unfortunately, knows exactly what happened.

He sifts through the information he knows about the pathologist. Not much. Sherlock trust her with his life. She is surprisingly good at keeping secrets, and surprisingly bad at keeping boyfriends. Has a cat, and a frankly disgusting blog full of information on said cat.

As he is walking through the silent streets, not far from where Doctor Hooper lives now, he takes out his phone - he is planning to skim through the blog anyway, in a desperate attempt to find something, anything he is going to actually do once he gets there.

Oh. Her cat has died. Well, it was quite an old cat.

That is what made her upset. Now, she doesn't even have the cat. She must feel alone.

Well, she has friends. But not many. Not that kind that would give their life for her. Just normal, casual friendships with nice, pleasant people.

But that cat, it must have been always there.

And then Sherlock unwillingly opened the old wounds and added to her insecurities... This whole debacle was a mess. And he was the one responsible for it.

What does Molly Hooper do to lessen the pain? He supposes that his secret recipe of a lot of high quality alcohol might not be the thing.

He really did not know much about what women did in their lives. Not that he knew that much more about what normal men did, but he desperately tried to search at least something.

His mother baked. Oh yes, when his mother was upset, she made cakes. That's why he was so fat when they were still living at Musgrave.... well, stop that now! Molly Hooper.

Does the pathologist bake when she needs to calm down? Is it a normal thing? It has certainly some calming qualities - you have to focus, he supposes, and follow the instructions, and if you just do that right, it will have the expected outcome. Also, the end product is sweet - and sugar in itself helps humans feel better, doesn't it? It will have to do.

* * *

It is actually quite late when the doorbell rings, but she realizes that only after opening the door and seeing the dark and deserted street. And, of course, surprisingly disheveled Mycroft Holmes... with a bag out of the local shop? The one opened 24/7?

"Doctor Hooper," he greets silently, as if afraid to wake the neighbors.

"Mr Holmes? Is Sherlock OK?" She is angry with the detective, but that doesn't mean she is not worried.

He looks uncertainly inside the house.

"Would you mind if I come in? I know it is late, but we need to talk."

"Yeah. Yeah, come in."

He cleans his shoes carefully on the mat and proceeds to the kitchen, putting the bags on the counter. He seems to check the kitchen a bit too much for Molly's liking.

"Pricing the kitchen equipment?" she says bitingly, arms crossed on her pajama clad chest.

"Actually, just wanted to know if you had a functioning oven."

"Oven?"

"We are going to make brownies." He declares awkwardly.

"I don't have things for brownies," she says stupidly. Why would she be making brownies, damn it!

"Your cat died. I am sorry." He continues, and from his unusually expressive face she can see how it pains him to continue this conversation.

"His name was Toby. He was not just a cat."

He continues to look highly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," he mumbles automatically. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "It seems we started this conversation on the wrong foot."

"What do you even want?" She was done with the Holmes, and she allowed this feeling to creep into her voice.

"I wanted to apologize. For the phone call. From Sherlock."

"So, you have my phone tapped, now?" she declared angrily.

"No! I mean... I heard what you said... But it wasn't like that!"

"How so?!"

"Today, I and Sherlock and John... we were imprisoned and she threatened to kill you unless you said those words!"

"Who?"

"Her name is Eurus, and she is probably the most dangerous woman in the world."

"And why did Sherlock send you to apologize instead of coming himself?"

 "You don't believe me, do you?" he sighed. "Look, I'm not good at this. So excuse my impertinence, but I know just a moment ago you were sitting there with just your black thoughts for company. I also know that I am at least partially responsible for said thoughts. So, if you would be so kind, I would die for a cup of tea. And then we are going to bake. Make brownies. And, if you want to, I will start this story from the very beginning."

"What is it with you and brownies of all things?"

Suddenly, he looked shy. "It's just a thing my mother did. When she was worried. Or sad. Or... I just thought it might be a nice thing to do instead of not sleeping on a couch."

Then, Molly Hooper maybe, just maybe, started to make a little bit of sense out of this situation. "Is this," she waved her hand in the general direction of her flat and her life, "a thing you do because you would be 'not sleeping on a couch'?"

"More of an armchair, actually. But I suppose it is," he admitted.

"All right. How do you take your tea, Mr Holmes?"

"Light. No milk, no sugar." After a second of hesitation, he added: "And you could probably call me Mycroft."

"I'm Molly. Nice to meet you, Mycroft."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when will be the next update. I'm sorry, you will have to bear with me.

He sits on a plain chair in Molly Hooper's grey kitchen. It seems to work, somehow. It is certainly a better design than his own kitchen - he doesn't cook, so he didn't really know what to do with the room.

He holds onto his cup and mulls over his promise to tell her everything. Does he really want to be split open to just another person tonight? But then again, he could probably trust her.

He gets up and takes the things he bought out of the bag, putting them on the counter. He remembers he always liked brownies. Not that he gets to eat dessert much nowadays. He doesn't want to be fat, and nowadays it is getting harder and harder to keep in shape, with his office job and the age of fifty approaching fast.

When did I get so old? Sometime in between trying to keep his brother alive and sane and juggling with the nation's problems, he is sure. How long, until his mental capacities start deteriorating? He does not care that much about his hairline receding, for there certainly isn't no one to impress by his looks, not now, not ever. His fight to keep his weight in normal numbers is more out of health concern than anything else. But his cleverness - it is the only thing left for him, the one thing he could never accept losing, however much it sometimes tortures him.

But for all his cleverness - it is not enough, is it? What is he? His sister is a murderous psychopath, but he envies her so much. How many more lives could he save, if he had her intelligence? He doesn't know. One thing is for sure - he is not as clever as his sister, and lacks his brothers ability to feel emotions freely. He was always stuck in the sad in-between. The oldest Holmes child. The weird one.

He knows that there is a very unpleasant conversation with his parents hanging in the air. And he also knows that it is not going to go well for him.

* * *

She made him the cup and went to get some clothes - something better than her old pajamas. He looked sad, now she thinks of it. He looks as if he was truly nearing the end of his rope, and there was no one to help.

Will it help him to talk about it, or is it a bad idea to add shame to his hurt, shame at having to admit everything to another person? But then again, who else could he talk to? She knew very little of his life, but judging by how Sherlock and John talk about him sometimes, she guesses he is the source of Sherlock's "don't need any friends" attitude. And the awkward way he seems to be communicating when operating on a foreign ground seems to support this.

The thing is, Mycroft Holmes from today seems to her much more open than the Mycroft Holmes she has occasionally met before. Then, he usually held firm hold of the conversation, politely - but still - ordered her what to do with his brother and then promptly ended the conversation. But today, he is so tired he seems unable to hold his stiff upper lip properly - it would be almost inappropriate, to see so much into him, almost comparable with the weird feeling associated with checking a body's stomach to find out what its last meal was.

* * *

 

When she returns to the kitchen, he has finished his tea and seems in the process of arranging all the things they are going to need in this ridiculous baking assignment according to their order of appearance in the recipe. She tries not to think about him rummaging through her cupboards to find the bowls and other stuff. Although, in this case, he probably got it right immediately, so no rummaging took place.

"So, why brownies?"

He seems startled, as if he thought she will start with a completely different question. "It is an easy enough task. And they could be eaten while still warm. And... I like them," he seems to add as an afterthought.

"Ok, let's get started, then," she suggests. "Are you sure you don't want to put your jacket off?"

He mulls over it a little, as if the three-piece was a thing still holding him together, but, than slowly nods, takes his jacket off, removes the cufflinks and rolls up his sleeves.

Some minutes later, he is staring at the melting chocolate and butter, and says suddenly. "Tell me about Toby."

It still stings a bit, to acknowledge that he is now under a little mould  of ground in the back garden. "Well, he was a nice cat. It was good to have someone awaiting your arrival from work."

"Was it always going to be a cat? Aren't dogs usually more fixated to their owners, and therefore more excited to see you?"

"Yeah. I mean - I have nothing against dogs, but with my work, it would be impossible to walk him regularly. And believe me, Toby was always very excited to see me."

"I believe you." He moved a piece of chocolate with a spatula. "I, of course, cannot have either. Can't have animal hair on my suits."

"You forget how non-observant people are. I'm sure none of your colleagues would notice the occasional hair that you missed and left on your clothes."

"Hmm," he concedes.

"You know, I don't know if I will get another cat. Certainly not soon."

"Why not?"

"I found Toby as a kitten. Near a cemetery. It was my father's funeral."

"So he was special."

"Yeah," she murmurs, and tries to repress the wetness creeping into her eyes again.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"Oh, stop it! Despite everything, he was a cat. And you were kidnapped today, and could have died," she argues in a tight voice.

The look he gives her is a weird one. As if he were going to say something, and then decided at the last moment to change it. "It goes with what I do. That I could die."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No. But I probably should."

"You don't have to. You don't know me."

"My brother trusts you."

"And that's enough for you?"

He nods and looks away. "I trust my brother and therefore, I know I can tell you. And you have the right to know."

"So, who's Eurus? Apart from a very dangerous woman?"

He eyes her weirdly, and she knows that her feeling that there is something more going on here than the boys going after a dangerous criminal was correct. Then he says silently: "She's my sister."

"You have a sister?" A nod. "And she kidnapped and tried to kill you? And John? And Sherlock?"

He laughs hollowly. "No, not Sherlock. Never Sherlock. He is too precious to her, you see? The perfect plaything."

They finish the mixing stage of brownies in silence. This is going to be a very long night, Molly thinks.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The brownie mix sits comfortably in the oven and he suddenly wishes for a cigarette, if only to find something to do with his hands. It is an unpleasant feeling, to not know what to do with himself. He usually knows exactly what gesture he is going to use, what poise, what words, before any communication takes place. It is a part of his job he likes - it is like a play, everyone is mostly aware of their role, of their importance in the grand scheme of things, and the conversations and all have a clear scenario.

But this assignment he decided to do, the talking to Molly Hooper thing, it is a path he has not tread for years now, decades. It is just hanging there, in ether, all the things he could say, all the words she could use, with no solid points to work from. He knows he can trust Sherlock, and in extension trust the pathologist, but he feels his words stuck at the back of the throat, unwilling to get out and uncover Mycroft Holmes the man.

"It is a long story, Miss Hooper," he starts, finally. "Many of the things that happened would better remain hidden."

"I am not going to tell anyone," she says earnestly.

"When I was about to start school, my father's uncle died and our family inherited the family manor and a substantial sum of money. With their financial situation greatly improved, my parents considered getting more children, especially as I was..." he seems to look for the right words there "... different from the start. In a way, they wished for a normal boy and girl, and when Sherlock was born, it seemed as if they got their wish - a clever, but friendly, emotional child. Eurus was fifteen months younger than him, and appeared to have shared my peculiarities from the start - but still craved their attention much more than I ever had."

He takes a long sip from his now surely cold tea, and his eyes seemed to be lost in a distant memory. "Despite the fact that I was much older and had to share a lot of responsibilities associated with bringing them up, I think I was happy. Finally, there was someone clever to talk to, and it soon started to be obvious that Eurus especially was soon to outpace me and become the genius of the family."

His gaze turns suddenly wistful. "She was so quick. She still is, thinking an incredible number of moves ahead. I still don't understand how I got out of there alive tonight." Except he knows. Sherlock destroyed the game she wanted to play, and Eurus was curious about where he will go next without any guidelines. "But - there was something more about her. You have to understand - my parents never favored the hands-on, clear-boundaries sort of upbringing - but she denied cooperating and using the most basic rules of social conduct. I understood she might be fed up with the just-follow-the-rules attitude of people, so I attempted to explain how saying 'thank you' and all of the other basically redundant norms help you navigate in a world full of people, and when that did not work, I tried to explain ethical concepts... and that was the first thing I found her to be thoroughly lacking understanding, to be ignorant, even."

He sighs. "I talked to my parents, but to them, she was just a little girl too small to understand morality and all the 'big words I have been feeding her'. But as her motor skills improved with her getting closer to five years, she started to do thing that were downright mad."

"What kind of things?"

"At first, I thought the problem was with her craving attention, because on occasions I or Sherlock refused to play with her, she would cause a mess, or break a vase, and then lie about us doing it. In the end, I got used to having her always by my side, except she wasn't happy with me reading a lot and not talking. So she fixated on Sherlock, and seemed to be improved for a while, happy to roam the grounds and look for insects and small animals. On one such trip, they met a new child in town, a boy called Victor."

He seemed emerged in the memory, and Molly wondered if she should get him out of his transe. He was clenching and unclenching his right hand, his back was hunched on his chair and his face had a distinct look of grief on it, now. However, after a while, he seemed to come back to himself, close a bit, and continue.

"That was the start of the end. Sherlock and Victor became quick friends, playing pirates all the time and leaving Eurus behind. In the end, she prepared an elaborate game for Sherlock to play, a treasure hunt of sorts, with the hidden prize being small Victor trapped in an old well."

"Oh my God."

"He died. He wasn't found until today. And the thing is, it is my fault. She was singing this song - a silly tune, really - but then I thought it might be the key to finding Sherlock's friend, especially as she started repeating 'the song is the answer'. And I was right - Sherlock used the same song today to find the solution, to find John Watson in the well. But the code went 'seek my room', and I did, at the time the boy was probably still alive. I went to her room and looked for further clues - but there were none - so than I just thought I was wrong, I was mistaken."

He covered his face with his hand, as if he were trying to unsee, to destroy the memory from his mind, but than he just went on. "It turns out, the mistake was that I went to the room when she was away. It was a call to lure Sherlock to come, to talk to her, to play with her - an it never even occurred to me! In the end, I am an idiot."

Oh God, he suddenly realizes. Someone is going to have to tell the Trevors, that their boy was found, that he is actually dead, that he has spent his last moments alone, in the dark, drowning. And he could have stopped this, he could have saved Victor, and Sherlock - oh God, Sherlock could have been so much happier, if he just did not muck this one thing up. If he had more emotional intelligence, surely he would have known how to get Eurus to help them to find the well. An idiot, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is not abandoned, but updates may be very irregular.


End file.
